


But right now, I'm just not strong enough for you

by OrionsVisiting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Davos is a character not a prop, Implied Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jon Snow knows like two things but is very sure about them, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Jon Snow, POV Theon Greyjoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Theon Greyjoy-centric, Wall AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionsVisiting/pseuds/OrionsVisiting
Summary: “Jon Snow smells like grime and sweat. The salty smell reminds Theon of the sea.”Theon goes North, and tries to remember what it felt like to belong somewhere. S6 Divergence.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	1. When it's lovely I believe in anything

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo yeah. Here it is. If you've seen me on [tumblr](<a%20href=) (which you should totally check out) you might/probably/don't know that this has been a work in progress. I usually don't like writing single story multi-chapter works, so this is a big thing for me.
> 
> Since I'm known for being horrible at following through with things, I have planned out that I'll be uploading every two weeks. If I fail to do so, feel free to beat me with a stick.
> 
> Oh, another thing: I changed „He had lost two fingers off his left hand (index and ring) and the pinky off his right“ INTO „He had lost two fingers of his left hand( index and ring) and the middle finger of his right.“ for the sake of metaphors, so please indulge me.
> 
> Speaking of indulging me, do you feel like reading my self-care slowburn Snowjoy Wall AU fic that refuses to have a plot but insists on having character devolpment?
> 
> Because if so, you're in for a doozy.

It would make sense to begin with the Wall, wouldn’t it.

It should have been the main thing Theon paid attention to, on his way up.

It was gigantic, foreboding, unavoidable. It loomed over the North; the whiteness of the ice glowing ethereally bright in the sunlight. He had always thought of ice and snow as bleak white; not these multi colors of blues and greys.

But riding behind Podrick on the back of a horse, clinging to the squire like a lifeline, Theon can do no more but emptily stare at the spaces between his fingers, where only the stumps remain. The cut on his left index had been the cleanest, with barely a stub left, whereas there was at least half an inch of his right ring finger left, the end uneven and crude looking.

Of course, most of Theon was quite crude looking.

He wonders what Podrick, or Brienne see when they look at his hands. Maybe they see an unpleasant reminder of what could have been if they hadn’t gotten to Sansa fast enough. Perhaps they, as southerners, only saw the savage cruelty of the North, the confirmation that the Northmen truly were ‘savages’ and ‘barbarians’.

And he does not wonder what Sansa thinks, as she rides alone in front of them, her long red hair knotted and matted and  _ beautiful _ , despite it all. She rides alone in front of the rest, setting a pace that speeds up more and more the closer Castle Black rolls into sight. Her clothes are torn and ragged but she is regal sitting on top of her horse, back straight and chin up like she was balancing a crown on her head.

Theon clutches onto Podrick like he’d die without the human touch, and Sansa doesn’t look back once.

  
  


__________________________

  
  
  
  


When they do arrive, almost thirty days after leaving Winterfell, Theon does what Reek does best: he hides.

He slips into the background, not bothering to pull a hood over his face or to try entering through a back door; he simply moves away, following the stable boys as they lead away the horses, leaving his three companions in the courtyard.

Before he disappears into the low rotting stables though, he sees a figure emerge from the battlements, and his heart clenches so hard he thought it might have stopped forever.

The years had been kind to Jon Snow -- kinder at least, then they had been to him.

He is too far away for Theon to see the finer details of his face or expression, but even at a distance there are certain differences he can see:He’s taller now, bearded like Robb had been the last time Theon had seen him, with hair as dark as a raven's wing. He’s broader, carries himself with the certain authority as he’d seen Ned Stark do all those years before. He had always been handsome, that Jon Snow.

Theon flinches, hard, and three impulses shoot themselves like arrows through his mind: The part of him that is distinctly Reek screams at him to go to him, to drop to his knees and beg for his head to be sliced off cleanly, while the part of him that remembers what it was like to be Theon wants to go up to the bastard, to grab him and shake him and  _ rage  _ at him, to ask him why he never came when Robb called. Theon might be a turncloak but at least he’d fought for Robb at all. Not like Snow. Unlike Snow.

But the part of him that was both Theon and Reek decided on the third impulse; To run, to hide. For no matter what name he goes by he will always be a craven, will always resort to cowardice.

So Reek-Theon Theon-Reek do what they’ve always done best and disappear into the stables, into Castle Black and the cold vastness of the Wall.

He wonders what the rats here taste like. 

__________________________

  
  
  


He doesn’t know if Jon know’s he is here.

  
  


The Night’s Watch themselves of course know that he’s here. He takes food from the kitchen and was assigned a room he hardly sleeps in. Sansa makes him sit by her every other night while she stitches by the fire. Brienne nods and Podrick smiles at him every time he passes by them in the yard. 

And he’s grateful that most of the sworn brothers are southerners, because they mostly ignore him, in contrast to the insults and hateful glares that the Northmen send his way. 

Whispers of _Turncloak_ and _Traitor_ do not follow him; they are spat directly into his face. He prefers it that way really -- in all those rumors and jibes they rant and rage about _Theon_ _Greyjoy_ , which fills him with some kind of broken, mad glee. He’d deal with the words and threats and the half-hearted beatings for the rest of his life as long as no one ever calls him by the other name again.

When he tells Sansa about it, her face twists in a ugly fashion, lips puckered like she just sucked on a lemon.

“They shouldn’t,” she tells him, but does little more. She spends most of her days walking around, Brienne hot on her heels, walking fearlessly through the wildling camps and atop battlements not with a certain purpose, but just to  _ prove  _ that she can.

  
  


Maybe Ramsey’s mistake was to keep her locked in that room the whole time.

  
  


He sees that her and her brother break fast and hold councils together. Watches the heavy oak door close many times, wondering what they discuss behind it. He creeps through the corridors and the halls, learning the secrets etched into the stone and carried by the rats. He learns to walk them up and down without anybody noticing a thing, a mere shadow on the wall, something the black brothers walk past without notice.

_ -ek, it rhymes with snea- _

He’d like to think that Jon did know, but like Sansa cared too little to do anything about it.

  
  


__________________________

  
  


Someone who certainly knew was Davos Seaworth, who approached him around a fortnight into his stay.

He was standing on the battlements of Castle Black, looking over towards the south over the Gift. The sky is clear and without the heavy snow falling Theon feels like he can see all of the North, feels as safe as he is capable of now being able to see if anyone were to attack, seeing as if they were to, they’d do it from the south.

Of course though, that isn’t completely true, is it?

But the almost dream-like fear he has of this ‘Night King’, and these ‘White Walkers’ will never compare to the terror he has already experienced in his life. In fact, a part of him is almost relieved to hear about these vacuous animals, reanimated ice creatures whose only purpose is to maim and kill.

There is some kind of sick solace he can find in the fact that they are mindless creatures, more interested in picking apart Theon’s flesh rather than his brain.

  
  


The Onion Knight has an interesting presence to him, a kind but honest nature that reminds Theon oddly of Dagmar Cleftjaw, more so with his solid sincerity rather than Cleftjaw’s thirst for glory.

  
  


Davos approaches him with his hands behind his back and his head lowered, a motion that surprises Theon before he remembers that this man was not born highborn, wincing as he imagines how Theon would have treated him in the past because of this. He tenses.

“Fine evening,” Ser Davos says, head inclined in a voice people had used to call him ‘Lord Greyjoy’ with. Theon’s thankful he didn’t. 

Names get confusing nowadays, and not even addressing him by name at all was surprisingly nice. Not Sansa’s exasperated way of saying ‘Theon’, or the growls and sneers of ‘Turncloak’ or even the not-so-faint memory of the name given to her by the man who remade hin. 

  
  


So maybe it would be nice to maybe not have any name at all.

  
  


“I-Yes. Ser Davos,” he answers, his nod more of twitchy jerk than he’d like it to be.

There’s a short span of silence then, stretching out like the wasteland of the North before them. The elder man clears his throat.

“Lotta nothin’ out here, isn’t there,” his voice was gruff, like the sound of thick rope dropping onto deck, “Makes me wish I was closer to the sea,” he huffs, “Or at least somewhere where it wasn’t so bloody cold.” 

He pauses, glancing at Theon sideways, like he expects him to laugh. He refrains from doing so. He doesn’t even acknowledge his statement.

The pause stretches into a silence, and if Theon had any social awareness left in him, he would have found it awkward. 

Davos turns slightly, almost like he was about to leave, before turning back to him, fixing him with the intense kind of gaze he more commonly associate with Ned Stark -- not for being a lordly look, or the kind of look only a father may have; but the way of regarding Theon as if they understand something they think Theon never will. An unintentional arrogant humility that he might have hated seeing five years ago.

“You know,” Davos begins, “You and I are not so different-” Theon stops himself from snorting. “-Even if it might seem so at first glance. We are both of the sea, for one; Outsiders in this bloody freezing wasteland” The Onion Lord has a nice way of speaking, a calmness akin to sand gently slipping through one's fingers. He relaxes slightly.

“We are both turncloaks.” Now, Theon can’t stop himself from snorting at this. “You are no turncloak,” he whispers, feeling pride over the fact that his voice doesn’t shake.

“Ay,” the Lord says, “You would probably not see me as one. I probably wouldn’t either.” He leans onto the bannister. “But if you were to ask the Baratheon men, now dead and frozen beneath the fields and woods of the North, who I abandoned in their time of need, or the starving women and men of Flea Bottom, of whom which I used to be one before being knighted, you’d find they may not agree.”

Theon frowns. “I thought Stannis sent you away?”

“It doesn’t matter if I left or I fled, in the end they all died and I was not there to help them.”

  
  


Before he turns fully and leaves, Theon sees something in Ser Davos’ eyes, and with a jolt, realizes the haunted, regretful expression is one he knows too well.

  
  


_ I should have died with him. _

__________________________

The wind howls and barks like a pack of dogs, whipping around Theon’s hair and thin cloak as he stands atop the wall he was taught separated the wicked from the good, which he now realizes does nothing but separate those who are alive from those who are not. The night is dark and the only thing that keeps the emptiness from swallowing him whole are the few lamps that dimly light up the pathway on the Wall.

He doesn’t know why he’s up here. He thinks it might be to die.

But whens he steps to close too the edge, all he can feel is the lack of Sansa’s shaking hand in his, can’t quite convince himself that he hears the horses in the yard and the servants im halls, unable to persuade himself that he, like in Winterfell, will fly when his feet leave the floor.

He does not jump, and therefore he does not soar nor fall. He does not step away from the ledge either. The bones that Ramsey had broken hurt in the cold so he aches in his jaw, his arms, his legs, feet, chest, hips and hands. 

Then he hears the sound of snow being crushed underfoot. 

  
  


Jon Snow had been pretty as a boy, sullen and shy but pretty nonetheless. If he hadn’t been a bastard Theon thinks he might have even been quite popular among the pretty maids of the North. Lovely black curls, a homely face; steel eyes. Steels eyes that he now does not dare look into.

There is a moment then in which Theon steels himself for anger or violence, to be ignored or to be ruined. There is no reaction from the bastard, as he stands there atop the Wall, staring at the boy who used to torment him.

  
  


The Ironborn exhales shakily then, trying to gather all the courage left inside him( _ to ignore the hope) _ to say the words.

  
  


„Are you going to execute me, Lord Commander?“ Theon whispers, trying to stop his broken teeth from chattering in the cold.

„No.“ A simple word spoken softly and Theon felt what was left of his heart crack. He giggles, high pitched and ugly. He turns to Jon now, see’s him properly now, see’s him clearly even in the dim light.

He sees the scars and the trimmed beard that hadn’t been there when he’d left all those years ago. Jon’s grown taller now, looks more sure of himself. There’s something authoritative and  _ almost  _ lordly about the way Jon Snow walks and stands, strong Stark brow and stern expression emphasized in the yellow light.

Theon looks ahead, and sees Ned Stark's shadow in front of him.

„W-Why?“ He asks, feeling tears jump into his eyes. It felt like he was floating, tip-toeing the edge of the Wall with his eyes closed. „Why not?“

Jon gives him a long sullen look, that exact look he’d always give Theon back at Winterfell, in the big warm halls of the Great Keep when Robb was sitting next to him, laughing at his bawdy jokes. Theon had always mistaken that look for envy, but-

„Because I fear that’s what you’d want.“ 

Theon laughs, loudly and shrill, like the sound a rabbit makes when killed. He laughs so hard he doubles over, fat tears slipping down from his eyes and freezing on his hollow cheeks, his face twisted into a ugly mix of disbelief and despair. He laughs and screams and cries, the wind howling as the sun threatens to crawl up from beneath the horizon, painting the sky the color peeled off skin and blood. Until Theon lays kneeling, sobbing on the cold icy floor.

  
  


And Jon, for his part, doesn’t look away once.


	2. What does love mean when the end is rolling in?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some dreary comfort in the monotony of the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry i'm late af

_ Oh, Reek. What a ugly, simple-minded, useless creature you are. _

  
  
  


There’s some dreary comfort in the monotony of the Wall.

It reminds him of his easiest days with Ramsay in the Dreadfort; because while those hardly had been fond times to remember, there had been consolation in the routineness of it all. Wake, bleed, scream, sobb, sleep. In Winterfell everything after felt like a mind game to him. But on the rack, there were few expectations and few thoughts -- only pain. Commiseration for a poor creature like Theon, like Reek.

  
  
  


_ Don’t worry though, my sweet pet. I am here to guide you. _

  
  


__________________________

  
  
  


_ Crunch. _

He splutters, blood spurting out of his nose, and tries to crawl backwards, away from the boot in front of him. He winces -- it felt like the bastard broke his nose. There were three of them this time, but he was only able to get a look at one of them before being shoved down; tall brow, dark hair, pale skin and dark eyes. A Northerner. 

Then hands are dragging him up, and he doesn’t even have time to collect his thoughts before he is punched in the stomach.  _ Hard.  _

“How d’you like that, Turncloak?” The Northerner spat. Theon jerked weakly in response, head drooping to his chest.  _ At least they don’t hit as hard as Skinner. They don’t wear iron rings either.  _

A snowstorm rages on, sending wayward snowflakes swirling down onto the battlements of Castle Black, on which Theon is currently  _ trying not to die on _ . 

He is yanked up by his hair, forced to look him in the eyes, blood dripping down from his nose into his mouth.

“My father fought for Robb Stark,  _ died _ for Robb Stark,” the boy’s voice cracks, betraying his youth, face flushed with anger. “The only reason I stuck in this shithole is because of  _ you _ .” He emphasizes this with a punch to Theons ribs.

Pain tears through his body, the piercing pain of his nose mixed with the pulsing ache of his ribs causing something in his brain to  _ stop _ . A kick came now, into his stomach, but he barely felt it. He was slipping, the world around him blurring as he felt himself falling back into the hole Theon had spent two years in while Reek had taken his place. Sinking, descending into the dark, leaving the anger and pain behind-

  
  


“Whats going on here?” That thick accent again. Tall brow, dark hair, pale skin and dark eyes. A Northerner, though a different one this time.

  
  


The hands that were holding him up dropped him suddenly, sending him crashing to the ground, his head slamming onto the hard floor. He groaned, trying to pull himself up, dizziness keeping him down.

  
  


“Lord Commander- milord, we-” one of them stammers out.

“I am not the Lord Commander anymore.”

“We were teaching the Turncloak a lesson,” the Northerner says with his hands still balled up into blood covered fists. He has balls, Theon will give him that.

He looks up, finding himself face to face with the black leather boots of Jon Snow. His expression was blank, unreadable and stoney. Jon hummed.

“The Turncloak?” 

The boy nodded hesitantly, his brave expression wavering. The other two, a young boy with straw colored hair no older than four and ten, and the other not even that --Southerners, by the look of it-- shuffled their feet anxiously. Theon could not but help feeling bad for them.

  
  


“The Nights Watch is an institution full of turncloaks. Turncloaks, rapers, thieves and bastards -- Here at the Wall, they have a chance to repent, to make something of themselves. I don’t see you lining up to beat every man that passes through the gate.” Jon’s voice is rough, deep and raspy like smoke rising up from burnt embers.

  
  


The boy, despite appearing nervous, opens his mouth to retort.

“Will,” Jon locks eyes with the boy, Will, and despite his stony expression his voice could almost be described as gentle. “I know what you are feeling. But this won’t help anything.” There was vulnerability in Will’s gaze. Jon then turns to the other two. “Now, you three, go see Edd have him give you boys some extra work.”

The three began moving away, but Will stopped again. “Don’t you understand?” he blurts out, “The Young Wolf died because of _ him. _ One would think-”

Something flashes in Jon’s eyes then, a red, roaring anger Theon had never seen from him before, not in all the years he knew him. With a growl he steps forward and reaches out, in an almost animalistically fast way, grabs the boy by the collar of his jerkin and yanks him foward.

“ _ I _ understand better than anyone else in Westeros,” he spat, black hair flying wild, “What was lost because of his betrayal.” He shoves Will away at that, anger seeming to deflate and instead be replaced with exhaustion. “But nothing’s going to bring your father back, Will. Revenge is a pointless pursuit.” 

With that, he dismisses them.

  
  


Hands shaking, Theon pulls himself to his knees, and opens his mouth to thank him.

“For someone who claims he isn’t Lord Commander anymore, you certainly act like one.” 

Jon’s head snaps down to him, and Theon feels his own self fill with surprise. What had caused that? It had been years since he’d even  _ thought about _ speaking to anyone like that. But even whilst staring into Jon’s eyes, he feels no fear. He feels, momentarily, like the exact boy that used to taunt Ned Stark's bastard all those years ago, the same vine of humor and confidence slowly crawling up his spine and curling around his lungs. If Jon is shocked by his words, he says nothing.

“Come on,” he says, eyes dark and stormy like the snowstorm raging inches beside them, “Follow me. We’ll get you patched up.”

  
  


__________________________

  
  
  


Dressed as black as a crow in the night, Jon leads the way, taking him through the old castle, through its dark corridors, over its cracked, unstable stones. It takes Theon a moment to realize that he, in fact, was not being led to where the maesters chambers were at all, and found himself hobbling in an unfamiliar part of Castle Black, a part seemingly even further decrepit than the rest.

They walked in silence, the sound of the wind whipping through their cloaks and rattling the windows loud enough that even if Jon were to speak, Theon wouldn’t be able to hear it anyways. Every step caused a shot of hot pain to run through his ribs.

Jon pushes open a creaking oak door and lets him inside, holding it open for him, forcing Theon to brush against him as he passed. Upon contact, Theon is struck by the thought of just how unbelievably  _ solid _ Jon was. It was a great contrast to Sansa’s thin, graceful appearance, his body, a contrast to both Podricks warm smiles and warm skin, to Brienne’s cold armor, was neither noticeably warm nor cold -- but he was there, solid as if carved into the ice of the Wall.

Upon entering he is surprised to find himself in what must be Jon’s chambers. A bed, a table, windows rattled by the wind, a hearth, and beside laying the hearth…

Theon rears back in shock, bumping back into Jons front in the process, who catches him by the shoulders.

“Wh-”

“It's just Ghost.”

The last time Theon had seen any kind of direwolf, Grey Wind had only been half grown -- going up to about a man's hips. The last time Theon had seen Ghost, he had been no larger than a dog, perhaps. But this hulking beast, who would probably go up to Theon’s chest when standing, was not like anything he’d ever seen.

He holds his breath as the creature stood, wandering over lazely, paws  _ thump thump  _ thumping over to where they were standing. 

_ The girls liked Reek, as if he were one of them. Sleeping among them he felt warm, he felt safe.  _

But this was no hound. 

Ghost turns his massive head towards Theon, two red eyes glowing like shining rubies in the firelight, moving near him, getting closer, towering over him-

_ Oh gods. _

-before ignoring him completely in favor of licking Jon’s hand, nudging it curiously. 

He feels a wave of relief and a mess of blood and mucus tribble down from his nose onto his neck, and is struck by a wave of nausea as he moves his head, wobbling where he stands. Ghost returns to his place by the hearth as Jon guides him through the room.

“Here,” 

The chair creaks as Theon sits on it, a bolt of pain shooting through his head as he drops down. 

_ Why is he doing this? _

“Sam- Castle Black currently has no maester.” He says this awkwardly, face half hidden beneath ink black curls, the previous authoritative stature and commanding voice gone. It’s strange really, Theon thinks dizzily, seeing the man close the door, only to reveal the boy behind it. Jon gathers what he needs in silence.

“Anything beside your nose?”

“What?”

“Is there anything that needs treatment aside from your nose?” Jon does not look at him, and Theon can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Gods, this must be agony right now; helping out the turncloak who brought his family to ruin.

“My ribs,” he says softly. A silent nod in response, and an arm movement to signal that he should lift his shirt.

He hesitates for a moment, locking eyes with the other man. In the darkness of the chambers, it was impossible to see his eyes -- dark, dark, so very dark -- almost black in dim light.

Theon lifts his tunic with hands with unsteady hands that at least weren’t shaking, pulling it up to his collarbone, letting the fabric bunch up of the spot where his nipple would have been if Ra--

  
  


_ Somehow even his eyes had been sharp. Sharp and jagged like broken ice. An endless abyss that Theon had somehow fallen into. _

  
  


But Jon’s eyes are dark like the nights to come, so Theon tries not to dwell on the ones that have passed. 

The Northerner stops in his tracks for a second, staring intently at the exposed flesh of Theon’s abdomen. His expression reads anywhere between morbid fascination and horrified disgust -- maybe it’s something in between. To anyone else it might even just have looked like Jon’s normal, stoic face, but Theon has known him long enough to be able to read the minute changes in his expression.

  
  


After a brief silence, in which he considered simply leaving and wrapping his ribs himself, Jon nods jerkily and approaches, unfurling a roll of bandages. “May I?” Theon nods.

  
  


There’s something amusing about it -- the way he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that something is wrong with the situation. At first Theon thinks the attitude reminds him of Robb; sweet Robb, who brushed aside reality, brushed aside Jon’s low birth and Theon’s captivity as if ignoring it would make it any better. But as Jon stood in front of him, legs pressed up against legs, gentle hands accessing his scarred skin and wrapping the bandages around him slowly, as if not to frighten him, all thoughts of Robb fly from his head and Theon is reminded of none other than Jon Snow. An itch presents itself in the back of Theon’s mind.

Jon Snow, the boy, the little bastard from Winterfell who had no matter what, always beat Theon whilst sparring, despite the age difference. Jon Snow who had, more often than not, made his stronger brother land on his arse while they sparred. Because more than Robb -- and far more than Theon -- Jon Snow had always been concentrated. Focused, with a precise mind and careful movements.

By the time Theon zoned back in from his thoughts, Jon had finished wrapping his ribs. He lets his tunic drop down, and wordlessly the Northman sets to work on fixing Theons nose. The itch pulses beneath his skin, crawling and moving through him like a viper.

_ Not like it was something that hadn’t been broken before. _

His nose had broken many times in the past; once by Maron when he was younger -- an indefinite amount of times by Ramsay and his boys. At this point the proud, tall Greyjoy nose, arched like the bow of a boat, was no more visible on Theon’s face than happiness in his eyes.

The itch burned and flared inside him.  _ Don’t _ , he begs of himself,  _ everything is going fine -- please don’t. _

  
  


“There.”

Jon crosses the room to his wash basin, and silently dips the bloody cloth into the water. The water rippled and the wind made the shutters shake and suddenly Theon couldn’t  _ stand it anymore _ .

“What do you see when you look at me?“ Theon blurts out, an explosion of emotion in a voice no louder than a whisper, finding himself looking down at his hands again. “A broken man? Not even a man? Do you see the Ironborn boy that made fun of you? The man that burned your home down?“ He pauses, and inhales shakily. “…Do I remind you of Robb?“

Jon’s head whips around and he almost looks mad again, and Theon flinches, expecting him to walk over and beat him bloody. Instead, he just sighs and looks tired again. Looks older than his age, in a way different and indescribable to Theon.

“No,“ Jon says, his voice a croak, “I just see you, Theon. Just a man. Nothing more.“

Neither cry, the wind howling like a wail for the both of them.

  
  
  


__________________________

  
  


“Come on Theon; you need to bathe,” Sansa Stark says,with the same arched brow and in the same stern tone that Ned Stark used to tell him that he needed to show more restraint around visiting lords, or to be more careful when playing with the younger ones; it was clear that while Sansa had her mother's looks, she clearly inherited her father's austere sense of duty.

  
  


His arms are crossed and he stares at the floor like a petulant child. “I’m not supposed to-” he hisses, before stopping himself and  _ hrrmph _ -ing, turning his head away from her.

“We are at the Wall now,” she says, hurdling him over to where the tubs stands, filled with steaming water in the middle of her room. “You aren’t ‘not supposed to’ or ‘supposed to’ anything.” Theon takes a minute to think about the phrasing of that -- not ‘you aren’t at the Dreadfort’ or ‘we aren’t in Winterfell anymore’, but rather instead “ _ we  _ are at the Wall  _ now’.  _ He likes this, he thinks, the living-in-the-now attitude rather than dwelling on the past, exchanging the  _ anymore  _ for a  _ now _ . He likes this, he thinks, this new confident Sansa.

“Then doesn’t that mean I don’t have to bathe?”

She turns around to him, her eyes narrowed, an expression that quickly melts away when she sees the shaky grin on his face and she smiles at him, rolling her eyes endearingly. 

His broken and maimed fingers can never work the way they used to, so Sansa helps him unlace his clothing. Her soft hands are warm on his skin, a gentle nonsexual touch that feels soothing to him, like the taste of mulled wine on his tongue. There is no flinching as she slowly works on his clothing, there is no awkwardness -- they know each other, have an understanding that would be incomprehensible to anyone else. To think that to Theon, years ago, being undressed by Sansa Stark in a private room would have been a wet dream, but now? There is nothing beyond the softness of her hands and the steam rising from the water of the tub. 

A sharp inhale tears him from his thoughts. “Wha- Who stitched you up?” She frowned and ran a finger near his bandaged ribs. Theon shifts uncomfortably. 

“Jon.”

“Jon? Why?” 

“I-” He pauses.

The breath catches in his throat. 

_ Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy _

He becomes aware then of every bit of dirt under his fingernails, can hear the slight wheeze of his breath loudly in his ears. His skin is greasy and his tongue is slimy; a dead, rotten weight in his mouth. 

“I-I don’t know,” Tears well up in his eyes, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Theon’s hands shake, and he steps away from the woman.

‘The world becomes blurry around him. Oh Gods, he doesn’t know the answer to the question. An idiot. Naught but an idiot he must be, for he doesn’t know what he is expected to say. And  _ he _ will hurt him if he doesn’t know, doesn’t remember, he _ has to remember- _

“Theon.” She’s in front of him, but he cannot see her.  _ No _ , he wants to say,  _ not Theon _ . But his breath is coming out too fast and his mind is working too slow. The hard bread he ate earlier is turning into stone in his stomach, twisting and threatening to make an appearance again. He’ll take away another finger for this. He’ll skin another toe. “Please-”

A strangled noise escapes Reek and he folds himself in half, wrapping his arms around himself. 

_ He hates that word.  _

  
  


The floor is cold and rough beneath him but he cannot stand any longer, collapsing onto it. Sobbing he presses his face into his knees, terror soaking through his flesh and skin into his bones like a chill.

“Hey.”

He looks up through his fringe, and there are those hands again. Soft and pink, unscarred, not unscathed, hovering right above him, careful and calm and close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating off them. They shouldn’t touch him, shouldn’t dirty themselves on his filthy body, on his filthy self.

“It’s alright,” the hands say, “You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you for not knowing something. You’re safe, Theon.” A wet inhale.

A pause; a moment he gives himself to consider, to remember. It's so hard to do so when you taste fear in your throat, a maddening terror that steals away all of his thoughts like a shadow in the night. 

But the hands, in his line of sight without taking up the entire frame, were not shaking, not deathly pale or skeleton or broken, blistered and bruised. They were like his mother's hands, he knew, like Alannys Greyjoys hands had been. He remembers her holding them out to him, patiently waiting for him to swim to her.  _ You’ll learn by doing _ , she’d told him when he asked how he should know how to swim, Y _ ou’re Ironborn, and you will know how to swim and fight just as easily as you walk and talk _ . 

Scared of drowning he had turned to her, asked her with a trembling lip what would happen if he didn’t. His mother had a weak smile, but strong steady hands.

_ Then I’ll be there to catch you _ , she’d told him. 

  
  


“May I touch you? Just your hands.”

A nod.

The hands envelope his, and Theon looks up to Sansa, who’s softly staring down at him with something unrecognizable in her expression, stupefied. He’s stopped crying now.

Her grip is tight on his and for a while they just sit there, silently on the cold floor, and Theon feels himself crawling out from the hiding spot in his mind that Reek had forced him into.

After a while she squeezes his hand and stands, taking him with her.

“Come on,” she says gently, “Let's get you in the bath before the water gets cold.”

  
  


He’s stopped crying now.

  
  


__________________________

  
  
  


“Ramsay sent a letter.”

  
  


Sansa doesn’t pause her stitching, only narrows her eyes. “Yes.”

  
  


Theon sits on the floor by the fire, hair still dripping water onto the threadbare rug. The rhythmic sound of both her stitching and the crackling of fire was lulling him into a calm. The flames are hypnotising, and he feels like a child again, sitting in front of a hearth with the quiet clicking of needles behind him. He could almost pretend that the sound of the wind rustling through the trees was the sound of waves crashing against stoney cliffs.

He swallows.

“Wha- What did he say?”

“Theon, he-” Sansa stops and swallows, the needle shaking in her hands, “He has Rickon.”

Something inside his body snapped then, brittle as a twig, and he was flooded with a horrible mix of relief and fear. He remembered Rickon's little face, the wideness of his eyes when Theon would tell him stories about the Islands, his soft auburn curls-

_ -Just like Robb’s. _

Sansa puts her stitchings down, grabs Theon’s hands tightly, her eyes wide. “Ramsay’s coming for me Theon, he’s coming for  _ us _ . I don’t know if we can get Rickon back, but I know we need to try.” The fire gleams in her eyes, voice desperate. “We need to take back Winterfell.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “He has over five thousand men. He’d win. He  _ always wins _ .”

  
  


She tightened her grip on his hands. “Jon doesn’t believe that we can do it, but I think, I  _ know  _ we can. Winterfell does not belong to the Boltons.”

And in that moment he sees her, not just Ned and Catelyn Stark, not just Alannys Greyjoy, not just the old frozen Kings of Winter or the vicious direwolves of the lands beyond the wall; He  _ sees her _ , sees Sansa, a woman of the North with a blizzard of cold fury, prepared to tear out throats to enforce her justice.

  
  
  


He’s stopped crying now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that sure is something i wrote.
> 
> if you're emotionally invested or even just read it all the way through, lemme know so I can be motivated to not be two months late.
> 
> my [tumblr](https://https://www.tumblr.com/blog/orionsvisiting/)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you could enjoy. Please feel free to leave comments telling me that my writing style doesn't really work for cohesive writing and that I need to work on writing realistic dialog.
> 
> Or just, you know, leave kudos or something.
> 
> I hope you're safe and healthy wherever you are.


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